


Firestarter

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Azazel (Supernatural)'s Special Children, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, First Time, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Episode: s02e11 Playthings, Sam Winchester's Visions, Season 2, Sex on the Beach, semi-consensual drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Sam’s visions lead the brothers to Little Haiti, and a fire no one else seems eager to investigate. There, they’ll have to navigate Miami’s criminal and supernatural underground—not to mention their own relationship.





	Firestarter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wincest Reverse Bang 2018
> 
> Alllll the love to [amberdreams](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/) for _the most_ breathtaking, inspirational artwork; to [crowroad](https://crowroad3.livejournal.com/) and [nisaki](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/%22) for cheer-leading and hand-holding; and, to [bluefire986](https://bluefire986.livejournal.com/), challenge mod extraordinaire.
> 
> [Art post here!](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/575522.html)  
>  (with very cool BTS content)

Claws and teeth and slobber scrabble for a barred storm door.

*

_White boys come a-knockin._

“Good afternoon, ma’am. We’re—”

_Easy on the eyes. Blue slacks and white dress shirts, just sweat stuck._

“—Miami Office of Fire Safety.”

_That ain’t a real city office._

*

Brown eyes, blue jeans and braids. Whole arm strains against a gray bulldog in a pink collar. “No English.”

Wood door thumps shut. Third house in a row, and from behind: “Ain’t nobody gonna talk to you, _five-oh!_ ” Kid on a bike bumps down the sidewalk, and two more doors slam across the street.

Sam’s shoulders heave.

“I told you, dude.” Dean wheels. “We oughta turf this bitch to somebody local. Someb—”

“And say what?” Sam follows him off the porch. “You heard the cops, saw the papers…” Gaze trails down the block. Row of flat-roofed houses, palms, and live oaks. “This all looks like a gang thing.”

“And not our kind of thing, I know.”

Corner by the stop sign, scorched and crumbled timber looms behind chain link and caution tape. Makeshift memorial out front: candles and pictures, sun-shrunk flowers.

“Bring the car, willya?” And Sam trots off towards the rubble, broad daylight.

“Dammit.”

Caloric waves shimmer and twist. Sam’s neck shines and shoulders tug his shirt. Dean flashes back, spook-ass hotel. Sam, drunk, _“The more people I save…”_

Dean swallows bile. Steers alongside as Sam sets a candle back in place. Stands up, climbs in grinning. “All Saints Botanica. Corner of 54th and 3rd.”

*

_Right here, to this shop!_

“Nice sign, huh? ‘Vodou, Hoodoo, Santeria.’ Whole fuckin Walmart of weird.”

_They took they time, casin the place._

“Dean… Hey, check out the scrollwork: warding, hunters’ sigils…”

_Least they let go of that firefighter nonsense._

*

“Well if this don’t pan out, I say we hit that club.” Across the parking lot, chipped mural of jazz musicians, pouring colors off their instruments. “Gives me a good vibe.”

Sam elbows him. “So I’m the psychic freak, but you pick bars based off their vibes?”

Dean elbows back. Nonspecific herb-and-incense mix reeks clear to the street. Candles, with and without saints’ pictures, scarves and dresses fill the windows. Door chimes and a bored clerk fans herself with a book.

Sam acts like they’re here to shop. Paws through charms, snoops spells, ingredients. “Dude, we should stock up.”

Dean glares.

“What?” Jar of yellow powder, up to the light. “This is good shit!”

Rich, throaty call from the back. “Analise, I’ll take care of these men.”

“Yes ma’am.” The clerk collects her book, her bag, and a sweaty cup. Ducks out through a beaded curtain.

“Welcome.” Voice goes with an older woman: dark-skinned, dressed in white. “I am Marie-Renette.” Anywhere between forty and eighty, and Dean thinks, _Black don’t crack,_ to Sam’s certain disapproval. She meets them at the counter, looks them up and down. First Sam, then Dean.

*

_And damn, them boys was tall! Analise’ll tell you!_

*

“Now. What brings the brothers Winchester to my house?”

Dean freezes.

“We got local boys, holds down the monsters in these parts.”

“I had a vision,” Sam says, and Dean chokes on his spit.

She eyes them. “Follow me.” Latch clicks and she lifts a panel. “Time for my smoke break.” Leads them behind the counter, between the beads. “Analise!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wood-paneled hallway, shelves of canisters. Shit tourists don’t know to ask for. Wards so thick they almost hum. Fluorescents overhead. Break room on the left, half-bath, washer and dryer. Light pours through a barred back door. Marie-Renette punches a code and its lock clunks.

Out in the alley, she sweeps off a concrete stoop, sits, and lights a thin brown cigarillo. Dean snickers—didn’t ask what kind of a smoke break—but the squint she gives him dries him up. Can’t help thinkin about Missouri Moseley. She fiddles with her skirt, puffs another time and mumbles. Sweet-smelling. Dean’s eyes sting.

*

_Those two… Wound so tight in each other the smoke wouldn’t pass between em._

*

Sam spills.

Everything. Yellow Eyes… “He calls us his, special children.” Choked.

Dean rubs his throat.

“And you saw this fire.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Day before yesterday. Once it turned up on the Internet Sam threw a fit, and here they are. Dean fidgets. Can’t figure why Sam thinks chasing this shit’ll do him any good. They, quote-unquote, _saved_ Andy, he guesses, but—

“Marcel Carter.”

Dean blinks. Rocks on his ankles.

“I didn’t know how he done,” she goes on, “but I seen him burn them boys.”

“You think he has-uh… an ability?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know nothin yet,” she says. “Problem is, how you gonna ask him without gettin fricasseed?”

“I think, there’s a chance, I’ll be immune.”

“Sammy…” Dean grits.

“Let’s call that Plan B. Wait here a minute.” Cigarillo perched on the stoop, Marie-Renette steps back in the shop.

Sun overhead floods the narrow gaps between the buildings. Dean glances; Sam studies graffiti across the alley: _RIP JELL-O-BOY_ , brick letters in blue flames. Sam’s profile—strong forehead and swoop-nose, long neck and Adam’s apple—Dean’s palms sweat. Kid damn near glows; glare off a window backlights, gives him a halo.

Door bangs open. “Fire wards.” Marie-Renette tosses them each a carved wooden disk. “Nine dollars.”

Dean balks. “Hey, you’re sending us on this—”

“That’s why they ain’t twelve.”

Sam coughs up his wallet. “Take ten.”

“Thank you, young man.” Like butter won’t melt.

*

_No sense sendin the local boys. Not when they’s two big strangers volunteerin._

“You boys find him.”

_And, you know… Sam had that… connection to Marcel._

“Get him here to me.”

*

Dean threads his Fed pants through a hanger. Undoes his shirt.

Sam unpacks dinner, eyes on his laptop. “Okay, our likely suspect is Marcel Joseph Carter, graduate student at Florida State.”

Socks and boxers, Dean unzips his duffle. “Promising.”

“Age twenty-three—”

“Naturally.” Dean glances and Sam’s frozen, steaming Styrofoam halfway to the table. Mouth open, lips wet.

“He-uh,” Sam coughs, “grew up around here, with his grandmother.” Chair legs screech across the tiles.

“So he’s our guy.” Dean pulls his jeans up, puts a little wiggle in it.

“Looks like.” Sam’s laid out fish fillets, stew chicken with rice, green plantains and roasted peppers. Dean’s stomach growls. Knee-to-knee at a wobbly table, they unwrap plastic forks and paper napkins. Sam inhales deep. “This smells amazing.”

“Real-deal Haitian Creole, so they claim.” Dean bumps their bare feet. “Only the best for my Sammy.”

Faint blush. “Only the best for your stomach.” Foot bumps back.

Dean digs in.

Sam pops beers. “I got an address.”

“Cool.” With his mouth full, so Sam frowns. “We’ll fuel up, hit the road. Somebody at Grandma’s gotta—”

“Know somethin.” Sam drinks. Throat flexes and Dean imagines licking, salt-stubble under his tongue.

It’s sick. He knows it is, but—“ _Thank you. You are…”_ —so close Dean tasted the booze on his breath.

*

_Well who answered the door but Marcel’s own self! Boy never left his grandma’s! Police wasn’t chasin no trap house fire. Mighta been, nobody woulda known, if Sam and Dean hadn’ta showed up._

*

“Marcel Carter?”

“Yeah.” From behind a screen door, heavy bars and four locks. Eye-to-eye with Sam. Shaved head. Intricate ink peeks out from a white t-shirt and jean shorts. Jock’s body.

“My name is Sam Winchester. I need to talk to you, if you’ll let me in.”

Marcel doesn’t move. “Talk about what?”

“I’m-uh…” Sam’s eyes dart. “I’m like you, Marcel.”

Eyebrows shoot for the moon.

“I have an ability.”

Dean shuffles feet.

“I have, uh, dreams. Y’know… visions, and…” Sammy’s gettin awful comfortable with this speech. “Sometimes they come true.”

Sort of a, patronizing grin: “Okay, then. You have a nice day, Sam Winchester.” He turns away.

“I saw the fire,” Sam says.

“You mean that trap house burnt down?” Marcel pauses. “Yeah, I saw it too. In the paper.”

“I saw the girl.”

Marcel looks back.

“The one you saved? And, her friend. Cherise?”

First Dean’s hearing about a girl. _Always with the secrets, Sammy_.

“I can help you, Marcel.” Sam bleats. “Or… at least, I can get you help. Please. Let’s just talk.”

Big shoulders slump. Column of locks and they’re in. Boy, and it is Grandma’s house. Age-faded wallpaper, thick carpets, and crocheted afghans. Crosses and busts of Jesus in ceramic. Family photos.

Marcel moves a stack of bills off the kitchen table—old, heavy cherry. Spins a laddered chair and straddles it. “So. You had a vision. That’s how you found me?”

“We had to do some digging,” but Sam nods.

Dean takes a seat.

“Why?” Marcel asks.

Sam’s forehead folds. “Why…”

“You saw them dudes get burnt up, went through the trouble of _findin_ me, and you ain’t drawed on me yet?”

“S’a good question, Sammy,” earns him a shit face.

“Lemme guess,” Sam sits. Knocks Dean’s knee, settles in near-contact. Jeans seams brush. “About six months ago, maybe a year? Things started… happening.”

Marcel frowns; silence weighs. “I set a paper on fire in my professor’s office. Some dude’s sneakers…”

Sam leans on his elbows.

“Then come the dreams.” Marcel studies the tabletop.

“What kind of dreams?” Sam prods.

“Old white dude.”

Dean’s neck prickles.

“Freaky eyes.”

Sam nods but he doesn’t speak.

“Kept sayin, I’d burn the world down, rule the ashes.” Marcel shakes his head. “Look. I ain’t no choir boy, but I know a devil when I see one.” Kid’s eyes make Dean shiver.

Sam says, “So, you…”

“Rebuked that sucker in the name of Jesus! Took my ass to church, got my grandma prayin on it.”

Dean squints. “And that worked?”

“For a while.” Marcel nods.

They sit quiet. Sam picks his nails and Dean’s heel drums.

Sam says, “Tell us about the fire.”

Marcel crosses his arms. “Look. Them dudes was killers. Pimps and dealers. They had fifteen-year-old girls in that house; I ain’t real sorry.”

“Why aren’t you back in school then?” Soft.

Marcel slumps. “Too many people.” Exhales. “Too many targets.”

“So much for church, huh?” Dean leans back in his chair.

“Be honest?” Marcel says, “I’m havin trouble not lightin you up right now.”

“That’s why we’re here, Marcel,” Sam pleads out from under his bangs. “Marie-Renette, over at All Saints, says she can help.”

“Help me? Or help you?” Another good question.

“Both of us, I hope.” Sam ducks his head, toothache sincere.

Marcel stands. “Y’all wait here. I’ma grab a few things.”

“Five minutes.” Dean points at his watch.

Eight minutes pass, and they’ve been had.

“I can’t believe we fell for that.” Dean wants to punch that guy in the neck.

*

_Can y’all believe them boys fell for that?_

*

Thunder booms and rain hammers the diner parking lot.

“His grandmother.” Dean drags fries through a mound of ketchup.

Sam nods. “Last Sunday. Some kind of, robbery-gone-wrong.”

“Explains why Marcel woulda snapped.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam types. “Dude, check this out. They buried her the day of the fire.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “not a coincidence.”

*

_And once they knew that—_

“Sacred Sands Cemetery.”

_it didn’t take no genius to figure out where he’d turn up._

*

Dean scopes Grandma’s grave with binoculars—night vision, A-plus investment. Sam snores from the passenger’s seat and Dean don’t fuck with him. Kid ain’t had a decent night’s sleep in—

“Yahtzee.” Down the street, one lone pedestrian. Blue jeans, pulled-up hoodie, hands in the pocket. Casually inspecting the cemetery’s fence.

The guy—gotta be Marcel, right?—peels back a loose section of chain link (thoughtfully furnished by Dean and a bolt-cutter). He taps Sam’s arm; Marcel hunkers down. Dean hands over the goggles and Sam nods. Marcel stands, double-time between the headstones. Shit for cover out there. Scattered palms too skinny to hide a ten-year-old.

Dean cuts the dome light and they climb out. Sam hands him the binoculars and Dean hears…

Sam cocks his head and they duck for cover. Monster of a luxury SUV prowls down the street. Floodlight nails Marcel and he takes off running.

Dean gets Sam’s eyes. _Guess we weren’t the only ones had this idea, huh?_ Sam nods.

Navigator. Pulls up to the main gate; two guys get out. Pistols glint. They cut their way in and the truck rolls through.

Sam and Dean follow, twenty yards back. Post up next to stone pillars flanking the entrance.

Give the SUV a good head start.

Fifty-yard-dash and they hide behind a mausoleum. Shoulder presses cool concrete. Sam’s breath hits, crashing wave. Goosebumps perk and Dean sucks his teeth. Lifts the binoculars.

On down the road, the Navigator cuts off. More men exit. Two in blue jeans, t-shirts. One ballcap and one cornrows. Third man steps out. Shot-caller. Five figures worth of suit and tie, Marine-shined shoes. Fucker’s even got a cane.

“Marcel Carter!”

Dean points. _Count of three._ Another sprint in the open and they crouch by the truck. Can’t see shit, but—

“Maximillian, you better get on outta here—” Marcel warns.

Deep voice. “We know what you done, Marcel. Know what you is.”

Shoes in the grass. Marcel’s outnumbered, outgunned…

“Then you know I’ll burn you where you stand.”

 _Oh, right_. Dean’s gotta see what’s happening. Long as he sticks to the shadows…

“Now, see? Papa Charles said you’d say that.” Cane clicks on the cement path. “I ain’t come down here in person unprepared, Marcel.” He reaches in his collar, pulls out a charm. “Matter-fact, I come prepared to make peace.”

And, “Who, the fuck, are you?” One of Maximillian’s boys draws a bead on Dean.

And another one—Baseball Cap—falls back, spots Sam. “They’s two of em!”

“Friends of yours, Marcel?” Maximillian asks.

“Yes,” Sam says.

“No,” Marcel counters.

Maximillian gestures; Sam and Dean get hauled to their feet. “It’s no problem, son.” Baseball Cap marches them forward. “I brought friends too.”

“Max, just let us go.” Marcel tucks his palms under his armpits. Dean calls that a red flag. “These two’s drifters. Gone by sunrise, and I will be too, soon as I say bye to my grandma.”

Maximillian smiles. “Marcel.” Dead-eyed. “You have a gift. You think I’ma let you waste it?”

Might just be Dean, but… s’getting kinda hot in this graveyard.

“You gonna come work for me.”

Cords in Marcel’s neck bulge. “That’s… It don’t work like that, man!”

“Um…” Sam butts in. Every eye lands on him. “May I? Uh. Say something, Maximillian? It’s Maximillian, right?”

Dean’s guard’s distracted.

Marcel, through his teeth: “This got nothin to do with you, Sam.”                                                             

Dean folds his hands behind him.

“Boy’s right, Sam.” Maximillian smirks. “It’s Sam, right?”

Eases his Colt out of his waistband.

Sam nods. “Everybody just, stay calm.”

“Oh, we calm,” Maximillian says. “I’m calm. Marcel. You calm?”

And now Dean’s sure of it. Heat, like goddamned athlete’s foot only fifty times worse.

“Marcel,” Sam warns.

“I’m sorry, fellas.”

Screaming. Gunfire. Flames licking up pant legs. Mr. Cornrows runs, gets swallowed up. Other guys stop-drop-and-roll.

“Catch that motherfucker!” Maximillian roars.

Marcel’s holding his side. Blood spreads. Wide eyes, pale.

“C’mon, boys, we gotta go!” Dean sweeps with his pistol. Howls of pain. Smoke stink, burnt hair and cooked meat. Dean gags. Ain’t nobody comin after em.

Sam drags Marcel to the car. Dean peels out, gets clear just before the sirens get loud.

*

_‘Papa’ Charles._

_That old fool’s fire charms ain’t done a damn thing._

_And, they don’t make no charm against bullets._

*

“Keep pressure on that,” Sam says.

Dean eyes the rearview. “Hang in there, Marcel; we’ll get you stitched up.”

“No hospital.” Sweat shines off his bald head.

“What am I, an idiot?” Dean guns it.

“Just, take me to my car, man,” he pants. “I can—”

“Bleed out at the wheel?”

Sam glares. And, “Come with us, to the botanica.”

Marcel grunts.

“You have choices, Marcel. You had control of this. For months.”

“Had.”

Sam raises palms. “I know. You burned the house, those guys’ shoes—”

“Feet.”

Dean glances back.

“Not shoes.” Marcel sucks air through his teeth. “I ain’t burned the house either.”

Dean swallows.

“You burn people.” Sam’s voice almost doesn’t shake.

“Your professor?” Dean asks.

“Hands.” Marcel lays his head back on the seat. “Them dudes. Maximillian’s crew. They ain’t never gon leave me alone.”

He ain’t wrong.

“My only shot’s to get gone.” Slurred, shock’s setting in.

“Come talk to Marie-Renette.” Sam says, “Get patched up. After that, we’ll drop you anywhere you want.”

Dean’s not signed off on that. This guy’s gonna go on playin Punisher, he’ll have to be put down.

*

_White boys, in that flashy car, draggin a bloody black man through these streets at three a.m.? S’a wonder they didn’t all need stitches._

*

Marie-Renette meets them at the back door. “Y’all get on in here. Set him down at the table; I got some water boilin.”

Half a surgery’s laid out in the break room. Good stuff: local anesthetic, suture kit, antibiotics. Marcel lifts his shirt.

“Just grazed,” Sam pronounces.

“Fuck you,” Marcel says.

Which, Dean coulda told em. Anything vital and Marcel wouldn’ta made it here.

Sam sews him up. Better at it, gets more practice.

Marcel leans against the wall, eyes closed. “I still don’t understand why y’all ain’t put a bullet in me.”

“Listen, man,” Dean says. “If that’s what you want? We will take care of it.”

“Dean…” Sam eyes him.

Dean shrugs.

“Marcel,” Sam goes on, “what you’ve been through, what you’ve done, we get it.”

One eye cracks open. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“We just lost our dad,” Sam says, “And, me and Dean, you better believe, we’ll get the thing that did it.”

“Thing?”

“It’s complicated,” Dean grumbles.

“You can fight this.” Stitches done, Sam leans for the gauze. “Did fight it.” Waistband of his shorts peeks out. “You can stop.” Pale inch of skin.

 _“You have to promise me!”_ Sat on the bed, Sam’s fists in Dean’s lapels. _“You’re the only one…”_ Hard tug, toward his mouth…

“Yellow Eyes… doesn’t control us.” Sam smooths tape around Marcel’s side.

Sam’s ass. Bedspread crumpled under him.

Marie-Renette sweeps in. “Y’all about done here?” Snaps Dean out of it. “I got you a room ready, Marcel.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Marcel rotates his arm, winces, “I ain’t stayin. I ain’t about to bring heat down on your house.”

“Boy,” she laughs. “You under my protection now. Heat don’t concern me.” And to Sam and Dean, “Y’all two wait out back. Be five minutes.”

She leads Marcel off clucking about blood loss and orange juice.

Sam steps out; Dean looks up. Not many stars above the steaming city.

Sam mumbles, “I get it.”

Dean squints.

“Why Marcel did what he did.”

Jell-O-Boy’s fiery epitaph looms under the streetlight.

“You’re not a killer, Sam; we’ve—”

“No? Who knows what I’d do if I lost you?”

“Don’t even go there, dude; you’re stuck with me.” Dean winks. “Like a bad rash.”

Sam rolls eyes, obligatory. Scuffs his toe on the asphalt. “You sure you’re okay just walking away from this?”

“I mean.”  Dean shrugs. “We’ll keep an eye on him; come back if there’s any more trouble.” Sam nods. Hair flops in his face and Dean fights off the urge to push it back, run his fingers through it. “Seriously, though. Anybody’s got a handle, Marie-Renette—”

On cue, spotless in whites. “Marcel gon be okay.” She draws a smoke out of a pouch. “Thank you, for bringin him in.”

“What happens now?” Sam asks.

“He’ll stay here, apprentice, work the shop.”

“Keep his nose clean?” Dean asks.

“I believe so,” Marie-Renette strikes a match. “It’s gon be hard,” smoke curls, “without his grandma.” Cherry blazes. “But,” she puffs. “He’s got someone, watchin out for him now.” A pointed look between them.

Dean gets Sam’s eyes, grins at him. Sammy ducks his head, all bangs and lashes.

“Y’all never gon speak on this again.” Not quite a request, “You agree?”

Dean nods, shrugs. They are good at secrets.

“Smoke on it.” Marie-Renette inhales, says something he doesn’t catch.

Dean takes the cigarillo. “Hey, suppose I gotta pass a piss test—”

“For your hunter’s health insurance?” She crosses her arms. “Smoke.”

Dean puffs. Don’t taste too bad. Burns his throat and stings his eyes. Strong tobacco lingers on his lips. He gestures at Sam and Marie-Renette nods. Sam grips it like a poisonous snake. Lit end flares and Sam breathes in—

Coughing, doubled over.

Dean rolls eyes and Marie-Renette takes the smoke. She hits it smooth and hands it back to Dean. “Two more.”

Dean goes along; Sam pretty much just kisses it. Watery eyes and sniffs. Dean coughs, third trip around.

“That’ll do.” She stubs the cigarillo out on the concrete wall. Mumbles, maybe. “Y’all boys stop by the next time you in town.” Swinging door and swishing skirt. “Safe travels.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Sam says to her back.

Quiet.

“Hey you think that club’s still open?”

Sam shrugs.

“We could, get a drink, go catch the sunrise on the beach.”

Smile creeps across Sam’s face. “Yeah. All right.”

They stand out, tall and young and white. Eyes sharp, Dean slips between the tables. Sam keeps his six. Dean drops a twenty in the band’s tip jar. Veers for a corner two-top by the fire exit. Locals turn back to their cocktails.

They order beers and Sam toasts, “To Marcel.”

And Dean clinks. “To Marie-Renette.”

Sam lifts the bottle. Chin tips back and throat works.

Dean’s tongue smacks. Cottonmouth, outta nowhere. Sucks down half a longneck.

Sam’s eyes, all pupil. “Dean?” tin-can echo. Gray concrete drums and white silk clarinet. “Wadded ouijas moat?”

“What?” Dean booms. Golden light explodes.

Tape player running out of batteries. “…synesthesia.” Gray velvet.

Dean taps his beer, pink sparks fly. “We should get outta here.” He’s no dumbass.

“You think?” Sam’s mouth squeezes, _Dumbass._

They tumble out of the club into clammy air. Salt. Blocks from the beach and Dean can’t drive, not when stop signs taste like cherry and Sam’s hand brands him, saxophone in a smoky room.

Eyes, white all around. Shoulders and neck taut. “…Dean?” Sugary-brown as molasses. “Dude. We should—”

“Hit the beach!” Apropos of nothin, other than he needs to walk this off. Boots on the sidewalk paint the world. Dean’s steps blue, Sam’s red. Overlapping purple pulses. Breeze picks up, closer they get to the ocean, and Dean perceives every hair it moves.

Sam’s jaw runs out in concentration. Washed out, pale and shadowed. Beach is closed, but they’ve made their lives getting into places they don’t belong.

Dean breathes. Tastes the salt and fish in the air. Rolls his jeans up, kicks off boots. Cross-ties the laces and slings them around his neck. Sam stares.

“Dude, you gon—” Voice blasts everything with gold again, so he nods at Sam’s feet.

“Huh? Oh.”

Wind shifts and goosebumps climb his neck. Sam’s long fingers take apart his shoelaces and cuff his pants up to his knees. Seeing him all bent over like that, Dean pictures slipping up behind and grabbing—

Sam looks up, mouth falls open and Dean swears he rollllls his back, presents that ass. Dean’s tongue scrapes between his teeth.

Low tide leaves a length of pier exposed. They creep out across the sand and duck underneath. Powerful, mussel and seaweed smells. Aged wood. Dean strips his overshirt for something to sit on. Sam sits next to him; knees bump and he throbs all over.

Dean’s fuckin ripped. Waves crash like whiskey, roll like Coca-Cola. Soaked sand, chilly underneath him. Waterlogged ink where his heat bleeds. Sam doodles with a stick. Sigils and wards, of course. Dean folds up: head on his arms on his knees. Eyes closed he can still see bird calls, Sam’s breath, his own heart. Bursts, kaleidoscopes, mouthful of pop rocks.

Lights fade, eventually, leave him hypersensitive. Sam radiates next to him. Wind waves arm and leg and nose hairs. Drying sand grains tumble off his feet.

Sam stands, strips to his boxers. Nipples, tight and sharp in the chill air. Sky pales above the water and his hair lifts in the breeze. “C’mon.” He jerks his chin.

Dean squints. _Are you outta your mind?_

Sam sticks a hand out. Dean grabs, but instead of hauling up, he drags Sam down. Puts him flat on his back in the wet sand.

“Dean, what…” Eyes like baseballs, pupils wide.

“You were drunk.” Dean hovers, fingers drag down Sam’s chest. “You were drunk and I couldn’t…” Knees slip. Sam’s hard underneath him. “You gotta be sure, Sam.”

Sam hooks a knee and rolls him under. Traces his waistband and Dean’s abs jump. Sam grins. “When I was like, twelve years old, I played in this soccer championship.” He grinds down and Dean bucks. “You’d been off with Dad somewhere; I didn’t expect to see you, but…” He tugs Dean’s amulet. “This,” he rolls the charm in his fingers, “caught the sun just right, and I...” Hands everywhere. Tops of Dean’s shoulders, back of his neck.

Dean thinks he remembers: Sam, ecstatic. Flushed-red and sweaty. Dean scooped him up, spun him around and kissed his forehead.

“My teammates all thought you were my boyfriend.”

Dean’s dick jumps.

“I let em.”

“Sammy.” Dean reaches up, runs hands through Sam’s hair. Sam dives, crashes into him. Tongues dart, fence and explore. Sam rolls his hips, grips with his thighs and moans.

Fuck, if he’d only known Sammy could move like this.

Sam tilts up, sits on his heels and takes Dean’s fly apart. Hand curls around them and sand’s stuck to him and it hurts and it’s hot and Sam yells. Just like that. Barely touched and sweat and slick and Dean drops out. Every nerve lights up and he says Sam’s name. Whole body trembles, what the fuck, and he’s gonna cry. He drags Sam down. Plants his nose against Sam’s neck.

First light glints off the ocean.

“Now you gotta swim with me,” Sam says. “Hose off some.”

Dean snorts, swats at his arm. “Then you gotta get offa me.”

Sand shower as Dean peels clothes. “We better bundle these and just streak it,” he says. “Never get this shit outta my upholstery.” Still hazy around the edges. How much that’s the smoke, and how much Sam…

Freezing. Incoming tide bumps them around, into each other. Splashes happen. Coupla dunks.

Sam pops up, flips his hair and water flies. Dean ducks. Tackles Sam again and tumbles with him. Arms and legs around him. Finds his lips.

“We better go,” Sam says, when they come up for air.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean gripes. Just now getting used to the water. “Motel, shower, sleep. Good plan?”

“Great plan.” Sam drags Dean in, one scorching kiss. They start for shore.

*

_Now remember, y’all. They agreed!_

*

Nothing besides Dean’s bladder coulda drove him outta bed that afternoon. Sam, peaceful. Not a nightmare, not a hint of headache since… what was that, three? Four days ago? He rubs his temples. Thunder roars and rain pours outside. Dean opens the curtains. Sheeting water twists, distorts the parking lot.

Sam stirs. Arches up and lets the covers slide, bunch at his waist. “Nice view.”

“Huh?”

Sam’s eyes dart, lip in his teeth.

 _Oh._ “Checkin out my ass, Sammy? You dog.”

Sam grins. “Learned from the best.”

Dean hunts up pants while Sam hits the bathroom. Rattle of pills. “Hey, you all right?”

“Head hurts,” Sam says. “Is it just me, or are you way more hung over than you should be?”

“Yeah.” Dean winces. “Somebody slipped us somethin, at that club.”

“You think?”

“Oh, I know,” Dean says. “I was seein shit for a while this mornin.” Grabs his keys. “I’ma go grab us some breakfa—well, dinner. You wanna see if there’s anything new on your Drew Barrymore?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam nods. “Uh… Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“Are we, cool?” Wet eyes, slumped shoulders and mouth screwed up.

Dean tackles him to a bed. Lips and fingers, teeth and stubble. Gets Sam groaning, sweating, hot. Handful of hair and he makes Sam look at him.

“Let’s stay here, another day or so, huh?”

Sam’s eyebrows scrunch.

“I know you weren’t, hyped to lay low, but, we can keep an eye on this thing. Make another run at that shop owner; I think she—”

“Hated us on sight?”

Dean grins. She sold them what they needed but was frosty about it. “Who knows? Maybe you get another vision.”

“I got nothing better,” Sam says.

“Awesome.” Dean licks Sam’s neck, draws out a moan.

Dinner can wait.

*

_Marcel kept to his word. Come busted his hump, workin round here. His school give him a year off—bereavement, they called it—by which time he ought to’ve been all right, off on his own._

_One night, six of that crew what killed his grandma turned up dead. Throats slit, not a pistol drawn. Never no trace of Marcel neither, never again._

“Hey, don’t forget the extra onions this time, huh?”

_Police say Marcel musta killed em,_

_“_ Dude, I’m the one whose gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions.”

_but I say…_

“Hey, see if they’ve got any pie.”

_Marcel’s curse done caught up with him._

“Bring me some pie!”

_And I think Sam’s just did too._

**Author's Note:**

> [Please leave the artist lots of love](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/575522.html), for she is amazing. ♥♥♥♥♥


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